“And that’s it.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing else? Flip the pages.”
I heard a shuffling sound.
“Doesn’t look like it. No, nothing. ‘Find his work.’ What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does this have anything to do with that assignment you’re on?”
“Possibly. Which is why I wouldn’t advise you to stick around there any longer than you have to.”
“Awesome. Should I call the police?”
“No. Just lock up when you go, not that it will do any good. Who else knew you were going there?”
“Nobody. Spur of the moment. I was up late studying for midterms and wanted something to read once I’m done. Unless …”
“What?”
“Maybe somebody overheard us at Martin’s. When you told me to come by anytime.”
“Doubtful. You should get some sleep if you’ve got a midterm. Don’t worry about the house. Probably somebody’s idea of a joke. It might even be somebody from my office. If they’d wanted to do real damage, they would’ve done it.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Doing well, in fact.” I wondered how he’d react if he knew about Litzi, but this wasn’t the time for that. “Your granddad’s here. We’re having breakfast. Want to talk to him?”
“Sure.”
“But then get out of there and get back to your dorm, understand?”
“Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I know!”
I handed over the phone, still a little worried for him, although it was a pleasure watching Dad light up as he asked about David’s lacrosse and all his courses. Even as I fretted the passing seconds, checking my watch and motioning to Dad to move things along, I was already wondering why Edwin Lemaster had created a character that, except for the limp, was a dead ringer for Lothar Heinemann. Obviously it had been too long since I’d read A Lesson in Tradecraft or I would have remembered the Klarmann character the moment I laid eyes on Lothar. But now that I had the message, what sort of “work” of Lothar’s was I supposed to go out and find?
Dad finally hung up and slid my phone back across the table. Then he watched me carefully.
“You going to tell me what that was all about?”
“I need a book first.”
“Not another destroyed one, I hope?”
I went to the living room and brought back his copy of A Lesson in Tradecraft. Then I told him about the break-in and the message, and finished by reading aloud the passage from page 119.
“Lothar,” he said. “He’s turning up everywhere, isn’t he?”
“I think he’s following me.”
“I wish I could say I was surprised. Surveillance is an old hobby of his. Although he used to reserve it for his competition. Whenever someone was getting items he wasn’t, he’d follow them for days at a time to find out how they were pulling it off. Strange fellow.”
“You always said Lemaster never wrote about real characters, that they were just novels.”
“That’s because you were usually asking about someone at the embassy.”
I waited for more. Got nothing.
“This person who stole your books,” Dad said. “If he’s the one who ruined my copy of Knee Knockers, then he’s been covering a lot of ground. He got you started on this mess, and now you’re letting him use you to get whatever he wants.”
“Maybe all he wants is the truth.”
“We’ve both been around long enough to know that’s bullshit.”
He was right, of course. In Washington, “I only want the truth” has become the biggest lie since “Your check’s in the mail.”
“Okay. So maybe he has an ax to grind with Lemaster.”
“Then it had better be a big one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at who Ed’s biggest fans and defenders are these days, or haven’t you noticed? Pentagon brass, defense contractors. All those people he makes look like patriotic geniuses. I doubt they’d be happy if someone started implying they were spilling their best stuff to a proven traitor in the name of novelistic research. And you could say the same about everybody he ever worked for at the Agency. What else do you know about this fellow who’s leading you on like this?”
“Pretty much nothing.”
“What other passages has he marked up for you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have all morning.”
“First you can tell me what you were really doing yesterday at the embassy.”
“No, first we can go back to what we were talking about before the phone rang. The Vienna police, and their description of that slender couple, modestly dressed.”
“Like I said, could be anybody.”
“Look, son. I don’t need to know everything you’re up to. Maybe you think it’s for my own good as much as yours. If anyone can understand that rationale, I certainly can. But from what I’m hearing, people are rather stirred up in certain quarters, and I’m concerned that you’re the one who’s stirring them up.”
“Which quarters?”
“You can probably guess.”
I sighed, feeling cornered. Then I decided to take the plunge. I would tell him everything, from the very beginning. At the rate he was going he’d know half of it by tomorrow night anyway. Maybe he would even be able to help.
I swallowed some coffee, collected myself, and began.
18
I went on for nearly an hour.
Dad frowned early and often, especially when I confirmed his suspicions about our involvement with Trefimov, although he seemed even more upset by my account of the Hammerhead’s discovery of my webcam.
“I can ask around about him at the embassy, if you’d like. Quietly, of course.”
“Sure. Whatever you can find out.”
“At least now I see why everyone’s in such a tizzy.”
“But why? This stuff was ages ago.”
“It’s like plutonium, son. One hell of a half-life, and lethal to the end.”
“So who do you think’s behind this?” I asked.
“Your handler? The obvious conclusion would be an old Agency hand, somebody with a grudge against Ed. Maybe even somebody from that damn funeral.”
“Why not somebody from the book world? They know these novels inside out, and hasn’t Lemaster changed publishers a few times?”
“At least twice, and never amicably. But, no, this is a spook.”
“A spook turned author, then. Just like him.”
“With what motive—professional jealousy? Even Ed would admit he’s on the skids; why kick him now? If there’s a wild card in all this, it’s his personal life.”
“Ex-wife?”
“Three. Complete unknowns. And God knows how many cuckolded husbands. That’s his truly mysterious side. The inner Ed—his lovers, his enemies. No one I’ve come across has ever known a damn thing about any of that, so take your pick.”
“Maybe Lothar knows. What do you think this message about him means when it says, ‘Find his work’?”
“Well, Lothar’s a book scout. His work is whatever he comes up with. First editions, diamonds in the rough. I suppose he could have found something your handler wants.”
“You said he used to follow people. Who?”
Dad shook his head.
“I’m not even sure those stories are true. They might just be part of his legend. Lothar used to shoot enough smack to stay awake for five days running, and supposedly if he thought a competitor had a hot lead he’d pursue the fellow halfway across the continent. Then he’d crash and burn, and disappear for weeks.”
“Could he have found something besides a book?”
“These antiquarian shops carry all kinds of stuff, especially the ones that were behind the Iron Curtain. Unless …”
“What?”
Dad bit his lip and looked down at the table.
“For a while,
maybe twenty, thirty years ago, there was talk that Lothar was writing something. A spy novel, which was a nice irony. When I first hired him, he had no use for genre fiction. Thought it was all Bond and booze, a bunch of lightweights. Then he read a few of the good ones and something clicked. Fine by me, because it made him a better hunter. By the time he’d moved beyond my price range, he was keeping some of the better finds for himself. The word among collectors was that he had started writing his own magnum opus. Well, that certainly raised a few eyebrows. Remember, this was a fellow who knew Agency people firsthand. They’d hired him for his absolute discretion and his zeal for results—he was a lot like them, in those ways—but the idea that he might have started scribbling down some of his memories, even in fictional form, well, supposedly it spooked them.”
“They asked him to stop?”
“I don’t know. This was all second- and thirdhand. But he never published. For all I know there was never even a manuscript.”
“Then what would ‘his work’ be, some kind of outline?”
“Or the whole thing could be a legend. You know how it goes with characters like Lothar. You tell a story about him and ten years later it’s repeated back to you, twice as good as before. I will say this. If he is following you, then I’m worried for him. I’d heard he gave up that kind of thing once he got clean. I hope he’s not back on the needle.”
“Are you going to tell me who ‘Dewey’ really was?”
“Like I said, a code name. Never met him and never knew his true identity, much less his mission. If I was ever caught while making a delivery, I was supposed to say I was passing along a gift for a friend of the bookseller.”
“Who gave you the cover story?”
“The same person who asked me to make the delivery. Ed Lemaster.”
“Why?”
“Why me? Or why did I do it?”
“Both.”
“You’d have to ask him the first question. As for the second, he wasn’t just a friend. He was an employee of the United States government, and so was I. So when he requested that I become involved in what seemed to be a very minor role, I agreed without hesitation. It was my duty.” He paused, staring off into space. “And frankly …”
“What?”
He smiled.
“I enjoyed it. It was pretty obvious it was part of some spy transaction, and considering everything I was reading at the time—he knew my tastes, of course—I was the perfect choice. Does that surprise you?”
“Not at all. Look at me.”
“Except you’re hunting Ed, not helping him.”
“If that’s what this is really about.”
“I’d still strongly advise you to get out of this while you can, but I can’t run your life, and if you’re determined to stay in, then I’ll do what I can to help.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded, but he wasn’t pleased. I stood up from the table.
“And thanks for breakfast. For everything. I should pack. I’m moving on this afternoon.”
“The sooner the better.” He held up the photo of Trefimov. “It’s probably a good idea for you to leave Vienna for a while.”
“I’m planning to stop by Antikvariát Drebitko,” I said. “One of their bookmarks was inside the parcel I picked up at Kurzmann’s.”
“Ask for Václav Bruzek, if he’s still alive. That’s who I always dealt with. And if you happen to wind up in Budapest, try Antikvárium Szondi.”
“Budapest?”
“Just a hunch. Some of my Dewey errands took me there as well.”
“How many years did you do them?”
“Six or seven. It ended when we moved to Berlin.”
“Why then?”
“Well, Ed got out of the business not long after that. That was the main reason. But I was a little surprised he never had me do anything in Berlin before he quit. I always wondered if it might have had something to do with you.”
“Me? How so?”
“You said Litzi’s going with you to Prague?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with—?”
“Be careful. I’d hate to see her dragged into all that sort of nastiness again.”
“It’s the EU, Dad. I doubt they’re detaining people at the border anymore.”
“I was thinking more about the aftermath. I’m sure it must have been difficult for her family or she never would’ve spied on me.”
“What?”
The room seemed to tilt and blur, like when a lens comes loose in a camera.
“She spied on you?”
“Only once. Quite harmless, although I’m a little surprised she still hasn’t told you. Maybe she never realized I’d figured it out.”
“And this happened after our trip?”
“Right before you and I moved to Berlin.”
“What did she do?”
I sat back down, legs wobbly. Packing could wait. Maybe the whole trip could wait.
“Oh, rummaged around a few of my things. Met a contact once or twice, probably to report what she’d found, which couldn’t have been much because there was nothing to find. That was as far as it went, really. Like I said. Harmless.”
“But why?”
“Her father was Czech. Strauss wasn’t his real name, you know.”
“That much she told me.”
“I gather they must have threatened her in some way. It wasn’t like they could have done much, but she wouldn’t have known that, poor girl. The repatriations and kidnappings had ended by then, but that brand of insecurity dies hard, especially if you’ve ever been hauled in for interrogation. And they had other ways of getting back at émigrés. Planting embarrassing stories in the press, making it hard for them to travel. They must have ordered her to do them a favor before you and I moved away.”
“How do you know?”
“She wasn’t exactly a pro, and there were clear signs she’d been poking around. I’ve sometimes wondered if she wanted me to find out. So I reported it. Had to, I’m afraid. The fellow at the embassy who followed it up told me the rest. His people never took it seriously.”
I didn’t need to ask who “his people” were.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dad placed his hands on the table, fingers interlocked—the “wise counselor” pose that he had always employed when I’d done something foolish like blowing off an algebra exam, or failing to stand up for a friend.
“You were young and in love, and we were moving soon. And you never liked it when I intruded on that side of your life, which I quite understood. Everyone needs his privacy.”
With the uttering of those words, the spirit of my mother was conjured into the space between us. I was sure Dad sensed it as well. But we let the moment pass, as always.
“Does this mean her name is still in some embassy file, or even at the Agency?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He was uncomfortable now. “Maybe as a footnote.”
It made me sorry for Litzi, but also for myself, unflattering as that sounds. This was the woman I had entrusted with everything, yet she hadn’t leveled with me. And if she was willing to withhold that secret—well, you get the idea.
I stood to pack, although in some ways the trip was already ruined. Right or wrong, I could no longer trust Litzi.
“Don’t take it so hard, son. Those were very different times, especially for families like hers.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
19
Litzi stood at the far end of the train platform, striking a cinematic pose in an overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat, a suitcase at her feet. Her face lit up when she saw me coming, a lover’s glow. Mine had flickered out at breakfast.
I greeted her with a dry peck on the cheek. Nothing felt right or comfortable, and she sensed it immediately.
“What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“Just a hectic morning. Took longer to pack than I thought, a few other things.”
The words ran
g false and she eyed my small suitcase. Thankfully she didn’t press the point. Our seats were reserved, and we had a compartment to ourselves. The first thing I wanted was a drink, but the cart wouldn’t be coming by until we were under way. I’d been wondering for the past hour how to bring up the subject of her duplicity, and I was still pondering the question when I realized she was chattering away about something from the past. I only caught the end of it.
“… that old wine bar just off the square, what do you think?”
“I’m sorry. I zoned out for a minute.”
“I was just wondering if that old wine bar was still there that we went to before, the one right off the Old Town square.”
I remembered it, a cozy little wine restaurant in a cellar with vaulted stone ceilings. At the time I’d been convinced it was the very spot where Sarah Gainham had set a key scene in her 1959 Prague novel, The Stone Roses. In the book, one of the waiters turned out to be not only a murderous Soviet spy, but also a woman.
“You spent the whole meal looking for cross-dressing waiters, as I recall.”
I couldn’t help but smile, which unfortunately made Litzi conclude I was back to my old self. The sooner I confronted her, the better. Maybe there would even be enough time for one or both of us to leave the train before it departed, if necessary.
“Look, Litzi, there’s something—”
The Double Game Page 15
